


Hotel California

by EminEmily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Bottom Castiel, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EminEmily/pseuds/EminEmily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean goes on a road trip and finds himself stopping in front of a dusty motel off the roadside. It's nothing like he expected inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotel California

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Sorry it's been so long, I've got something in the works right now that I know will take me a while to finish. I was trying to concentrate on that, but I eventually had to accept that I've hit a wall with it, and so this was borne of my trying to beat my writer's block. Sorry if it's not quite as finished-seeming. It wrote it two nights in a row in sort of a haze. It kind of poured out of me. I was watching the first episode of American Horror Story: Hotel, and they used the Eagles' song "Hotel California" at the end, and the next thing I knew, I was writing this. It's based around the song, and has some references to it, but I tried not to make it one of those song fics. Anyway, enjoy! Comments are appreciated. (also, I have no idea why this particular one has so many religious references in it. I'm not religious at all. I guess I was in a mood)

Dean yawns, rubbing a hand across his eyes, letting it trail down over his stubbly jaw. He isn't supposed to be tired yet, and he knows it. He got a solid 4 hours before he left from Colorado. His brother, Sam, is graduating from Stanford, and Dean decided to make it a road trip and drive there from Kansas. Just himself and his Baby, and, after Sam's graduated, his brother in the passenger seat, taking him back home after a long 4 years. He's only been driving for - he glaces at the dashboard clock - 14 hours. He left at 6 that morning, and the clock is hovering somewhere between 8:13 and 8:14 PM. 8 is early for him. 8 is not the time for him to be yawning.

He pulls off at a roadside service center and grabs a large cup of shitty, tar-coloured coffee, hoping that will stave off his sleep. He downs it all within half an hour of resuming his drive, and he's still yawning, despite the copious amounts of caffeine that must be flowing through him by now.

Another half hour later and he's closing his eyes long enough to find himself drifting into the other lane. That's when he decides to give up on driving for the night. If not for himself, then for Baby. His car doesn't deserve to be crashed due to his own stupidity. He rolls down the window, hoping the cool desert air flowing through the window will keep him awake long enough to find some sort of hotel. Which could be a while, seeing as he's in the middle of a desert in Nevada.

Sometime later, Dean's head perks up. Drifting in through the window on the salty desert air, he smells something sweet and cloying. It draws his attention, and he finds himself looking through the passenger window at none other than a hotel.

It looks like a mix between a Spanish ranch house and a pueblo; short and squat with wide-arched doors and windows with no panes. The whole building is painted while, but he can see sand caking parts of the walls, giving it a dingy, gritty appearance. The only thing that clued him into this being a hotel was the sign out front. Crooked, in need of a new coat of paint, a white sign hung from a red post somewhere in front of the building. Dean had to squint, but he could just barely make out the words _Hotel California_ written in stylized, slanted letters. The whole place looks sketchy, but it seems to be his only option.

He sighs, pulls the Impala into the sand-covered area that _seems_ to be a parking lot, and gets out slowly. He stretches, relishing the dull ache in his muscles from being in the car for too long. It's his favourite kind of ache. He runs a hand across his face again, yawns, and makes his way over to the front door.

By the time he gets to the entrance, his limbs feel heavy, weighted down like they're full of lead. His eyes are drooping even further, and he swears he can see a dull, dim light somewhere down the hallway. The hotel entrance is dark. The fools are worn wood, dusted over with sand. They feel dimpled under his feet.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, Dean is greeted by a man coming into the hallway from a side room. He's barefooted, wearing an oversized, flowy shirt, loose pants, and no shoes. He carries a candle in his hand, his wrists wrapped in layers of loose corded bracelets, and Dean can see his soft, barely-there smile in the light of the small flame. Dean finds himself smiling in return, his lips quirking up at the corners without his consent.

The man looks up at him, and Dean can see the orange light reflected in a pair of very blue, very pretty eyes. "Hello," he greets, his voice as deep and rough as the desert surrounding them.

Dean hesitates for a moment, his heart thumping erratically in response. He clears his throat. "Hi, I'm Dean. Dean Winchester, I'd like to . . . rent a room for the night?" He looks around, seeing nothing but the dark hallway surrounding him.

The man nods. "I'm Castiel. I own this little, humble abode. I'd be delighted to rent you a room for the night, if you'll follow me." He turns around, and Dean feels compelled to follow him, as if his life depends on it.

Castiel looks over his shoulder at Dean, and, almost as an afterthought, says "Oh, and welcome to Hotel California."

Castiel introduces Dean to the place. He takes him across a wide, open courtyard with a circle of grass in the middle, and over to a collection of open doorways, set in a circle around the grassy area. He motions with a hand. "Here is your room. I know it's not much, but it's something."

Dean glances around the room. It consists of a low, wide window, the sill lined with a long row of candles, a bare mattress sitting directly on the floor beneath, and a squat inn table. He nods. "It'll do. I don't need a Hilton, I just need a place to sleep."

Castiel nods. "I see that. You look very tired." He runs a hand across Dean's arm, and Dean tries not to shudder at the contact. Castiel's hands feel strong.

"I'll go get you a pillow and some blankets. I don't keep them in the rooms because it's less cleanup for me if a sandstorm hits and blows sand in the windows." He nods towards the window in question. "The candles are because we don't have electricity here." He shrugs one shoulder, "It's hard to get a company to run lines all the way out to the middle of nowhere in a Nevadan desert."

Dean turns to look at him. "Why did you build this place? Out here in the middle of nowhere."

Castiel considers the question for a moment. "For people like you, I think. Wayward travelers that have a long way to go before they get out of the desert. As I said, it's not much, but I wanted to provide something. Something other than a cold night in the backseat of a car.

Dean nods, "I get that."

Somewhere off in the distance, Dean can hear the low tolling of a bell. He looks around, confused, and he hears Castiel chuckle softly under his breath. His laugh sounds like a low tide, pulling him under.

"That's the mission bell. I tried to keep this place as architecturally accurate as I could. It rings every hour. I'm sorry if that will be a problem."

Dean shakes his head. "No, no, it's fine. I just didn't notice it when I came in."

Castiel pointed behind them. Across the courtyard, above the front entrance, a cracked bell hung, a monument to the entire hotel.

Dean's gaze hung on it, momentarily mesmerized at the deep sound coming from such an old, dilapidated-looking bell. His mind felt hazy, and the whole place seemed to be closing in around him, the hallways darkening, the doorway growing smaller. It was almost like he'd taken a bad acid trip that wasn't actually that bad. He shook his head to dislodge it, but could still feel it lingering in his brain, like a smoke screen wrapped around his thoughts.

The next thing Dean knew, Castiel was presenting him with a soft, clay-coloured pillow and a matching blanket. The blanket seemed like silk under his touch. He could tell it had a high thread count. It was thick, insulated against the chill of the cold desert air. He wanted to curl up in it and nap for years on end.

Castiel smiled at him and guided him into the room, a hand at the small of his back. "Here," he lead Dean to the bed. "You seem as if you're about to fall asleep on your feet. Get some rest, Dean."

Dean nodded, still in a daze, and dropped like a stone to the bed. He curled up in the blanket, and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Before his eyes finally closed, though, he saw Castiel, his strong hands handling a slender match carefully, using it to light the candles across the window sill. As he left the room, Dean watched him light a stick of incense as well, the smoke billowing across the room, the scent the same cloying, sweet one that Dean smelled through the car window.

He woke up to the sound of the bell. The tolling drifted in on the wind and wrapped around Dean's ears like a hat. It pulled him awake slowly, softly, almost caressing him. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes, and looked around. The candles on the window sill had burned down low, the incense on the table burnt completely out. Somehow, though, the air still seemed infused with its smoke, the same haze that covered him earlier still surrounded him.

He looked down and noticed that Castiel had removed his boots for him. He felt a momentary flash of affection for the man, despite knowing nothing about him. He could hear something beyond his door, some type of low drumbeat and guitars, and it compelled him to his feet. He disregarded his shoes and followed the sound through his door and into the courtyard, his socks muffling his footsteps.

Dean wasn't expecting the sight that greeted him. In the courtyard, there was a group of people dancing around the trees. People of all genders, some in various stages of undress, wound around the trees like snakes. The drumming sound was coming from a couple of people in one corner, one playing bongos, one playing a guitar. The beat seemed ancient, tribal-sounding. It flowed through Dean like water, and he could feel himself drawn to it.

He was surprised to see Castiel in the mix of people, when he finally noticed him. He didn't seem as drawn in as the others, but it still looked like he was enjoying himself. When Dean saw him, he was turning in circles with a taller blonde man, both of them laughing.

When Castiel noticed Dean, he dropped his companion's hands immediately and made his way over to Dean. He held a hand out and gave him another soft smile, his blue eyes flashing wickedly. "Join me, Dean."

Dean nodded slowly, letting his gaze drift around one more time. "What is this?" He asked.

Castiel shrugged. "People. My friends. Drifters who come to stay here." He turned and surveyed all of them. "We're in the middle of the desert, Dean, we're sometimes pressed for entertainment. Some of us dance because it's fun, others because it's distracting." He turned back to Dean. "Which will it be for you, Dean?"

Dean swallowed, his hand in Castiel's before he knew it. His voice was rough, unused, when he spoke. "Whichever you make it, Cas."

Castiel stilled momentarily at the nickname. He smiled again. That same soft, barely-there smile, and lead Dean into the writhing mass of people.

Dean felt euphoric, as if he'd left his body and entered another realm. He'd lost his over shirt at some point and time, and was down to the tank top he was wearing underneath. He ended up barefooted, dancing around in a group of people like he'd never wanted to be anywhere else. It almost felt like an orgy in the courtyard, all the bodies writhing against each other. But it wasn't that. It was more than that. If Dean were a religious man, he'd say it felt like a communion. Like a prayer across the feet of every dancing body present. He'd say it felt like a religious experience. Like the moonlight washing over them all and the beat of the bongos were actually the presence of some ethereal being. Like maybe, if angels existed, this is what they felt like.

So he danced, and he danced, and he danced. Dean had no idea how much time had passed. All he knew was that he didn't want to stop. His feet ached, he was tired again, and he was in dire need of a drink, but he didn't want to stop. The air was still cloying, still sweet, still caressing him. He felt suffocated at times, all the bodies surrounding him like closely-built walls. But the cool, summery, desert air kept him from really losing it. Claustrophobia isn't possible when it all feels this good.

Eventually he could feel a hand weave its way through the crowd and grab hold of his wrist. He let himself move with it, and when he was pulled from the crowd, he came face-to-face with Castiel.

Castiel smiled again and used his thumb to wipe a bead of sweat from Dean's check. "You seem to be enjoying yourself." He mused.

Dean nodded, at a loss for how else to describe it. "I don't know what this is, but it feels like religion." The words felt heavy on his tongue, clung to his throat when he tried to speak them.

Castiel nodded. "Some people call it that, yes. I think it's just dancing." He gazed out into the courtyard and smile. "But I can see how it would feel like that. It feels like being connected to them, all. To everyone, and all the heartbeats in the world pounding through the soles of your feet."

Dean licked his lips, fully aware that Castiel had just described everything he was feeling. He was still riding his dancing high, his mind still smoke with the haze, and he couldn't stop himself when he pulled Castiel in by their still-conjoined hands and pressed his lips against the shorter man's.

He felt Castiel smile into the kiss, and he felt himself being lead to another room.

When he opened his eyes, disconnected his lips from Castiel's, and remembered what it was to breathe, he found himself in one of the hotel's rooms, this one altogether different, and yet so painfully similar, to his own. It had the same squat windowsill lined with candles, the same bed on the floor, the same squat inn table with more candles and incense, but this one looked more lived in. Tapestries lined the walls, and the bed, while bigger than Dean's, was also piled with worn blankets and tasseled pillows. He could see picture frames on the inn table, and when the reflection caught his eye, he looked up to find a mirror pined to the ceiling.

He looked over at Castiel, motioning towards the mirror with his head. "Why the mirror?"

Castiel's smile was more of a smirk this time. "Sometimes I like to see things from other angles."

Somehow that turned Dean on more than anything else.

He pressed Castiel into the wall, his hands twined in the edges of his oversized shirt. Castiel's mouth tasted like that same smell he'd been smelling everywhere. He pulled back for a moment. "Cas, what is that smell? That . . . taste in your mouth. That smell. I've been smelling it every moment I've been here. I smelled it through my car window, and that was what made me notice this place."

Castiel licked his lips, his fingers toying with the bottom of Dean's undershirt. That reminded him, he needed to find his plaid at some point in time. "It's the incense. It's all the same scent. It's supposed to smell like . . . colitas."

Dean stilled. "Colitas? You mean, like, marijuana? Isn't that what they call it in Mexico, colitas? Have I been high this whole time?"

Castiel nodded, blushing brightly. "Yes, those are called colitas. But you're not drugged, I promise. It's just the smell. I've noticed that, even though it doesn't _actually_ do anything to anyone, it seems to induce this sort of calm. I think it's because of how sweet and smoky it smells. But I swear, it's not actual colitas, it's just the smell of them. The incense comes from Mexico, and that is why it's called that."

Dean nodded, relived. "Oh, good. I was afraid you'd drugged me. So that's what weed smells like?"

Castiel nodded.

Dean couldn't say he was very averse to the smell.

They ended up on the bed, eventually, between gentle touches and even gentler kisses. They had both lost their shirts, Castiel had lost his pants, and Dean's jeans were pushed low on his hips. Dean ran a hand through Castiel's hair, relishing the feeling of the soft black locks under his fingertips. Castiel leaned up into the touch, and Dean smiled gently at him.

Castiel ran his hands under the waistband of Dean's jeans, his fingers sweeping the skin above his pelvis. Dean shuddered under his touch, his own hands tugging at the bottom of Castiel's loose boxer shorts. Everything about his clothing was loose, including his underwear.

Castiel let him strip him, soon down to nothing but the threads on his wrist. He pouted up at Dean from his position beneath him on the bed. "This is highly unfair. Why must I be the one in the highest state of undress?"

Dean purred at him, brushing his lips across Castiel's and planting a kiss on the tip of his nose. "Well, I guess you'll have to fix that, then, huh?"

His jeans were off before he even realised what had happened.

Castiel laid beside him, the candlelight washing his skin in even yellow tones, highlighting the shadows on his cheeks and the contours of his face. Dean drank him in like fine wine, staring into his eyes. The intimacy was palpable without either of them having to lay a hand on the other. When it felt like too much, like the pressure looming over Dean to _move_ had finally crashed down on top of him, Dean brushed a hand up the inside of Castiel's thighs. He felt his muscles twitching under his hand the closer he got to his inseam.

When his hand finally closed around Castiel's cock, it felt like soft velvet in his grasp. He moved slowly, wanting every moment of this to last as long as it could. Wanting to remember every bit of this. To wrap it up, stow it away in his trunk, and take it out to look at it on a rainy day. He couldn't accept the voice inside his head that told him that he didn't want that after all, that he wanted this to be more than just a rainy-day thought. The voices were always wrong, anyway.

Castiel moved against him, moved with him, his body grinding to the unknown beat of their movements. He moaned a low, bitten-off sound, biting his lip to muffle it. Dean flicked his wrist on the next stroke, eliciting a louder sound from his companion. Castiel, in turn, tried to muffle it again.

Dean brushed a hand across his jaw, coming to rest behind his ear. "Let me hear you," he said softly. He motioned towards the window. "Let the sand and the moonlight hear you. You sound like a symphony."

Castiel seemed to come undone from that, because his next moan was unbidden, louder than all the rest. He muffled nothing, and Dean had to bite his own lip to stop himself from uttering an answering moan in return. Castiel just sounded like sin, and Dean wanted to worship at his desecrated altar for the rest of his days. He wanted to drink him in, hold him inside his chest like smoke, and let him go on the next breath. Or hold on so tightly that Castiel went down alongside him, the smoke in his lungs taken over.

He shook his head, trying to bring himself back to the present, which was more interesting than the imaginings of his own mind. He looked down at Castiel, a flush rising high on his chest, his upper teeth kneading his lower lip. He came apart under Dean's ministrations, but Dean stopped before he could really get anywhere. To his whine, Dean answered, "I want this to last as long as possible."

All Castiel could do was nod in reply.

He found the lube in the drawer of the inn table, smiling when he realized it was scented like some sort of plant. Castiel and his plants.

He covered a finger in its slickness, and let it find its way under Cas, pushing into him gently, slowly. Castiel moaned and pushed back against it, letting it slide further into himself than where Dean was planning on stopping. He worked that finger until Castiel nodded, and then he slicked up another and added another one. The process continued until Castiel rasped, "I'm ready. Just stop with your fingers. Just do it. I'm ready," underneath him, his voice wrecked and his face in much the same position.

Dean couldn't deny an order. He found a condom in the same inn table drawer, and sliding into Castiel felt like the first altar candle being lit. Something sparked inside him, and slow and gentle wasn't working for him anymore.

He pounded Castiel into the mattress, for lack of a better description. Castiel moaned wantonly beneath him, enjoying every moment. Dean's grip on his hips was almost tight enough to leave bruises, and that only made the process better. Castiel was flushed, panting, sweat running in rivulets down his temples. He face Dean, his arms wrapping around his neck and his mouth open in silent moans whenever his deep, rumbling plaints didn't surface.

Dean could tell that he was close. He could tell that Castiel was, too, judging by the gentle shaking that had begun to rock his body from head to toe. He slowed down after that, taking more joy in his slow, rolling hips. Castiel's body arched into his.

Castiel let go of Dean's neck and grabbed fistfuls of his blankets, his head tossing back and forth every time Dean hit his prostate. Once he knew where to aim, exactly which way to rock, there was no stopping him. His accuracy was impressive.

They reached Nirvana together, and every second felt holy in Dean's mind. Castiel cried out even louder than he had before, his come painting Dean's and his stomachs. Dean crashed shortly behind him, letting go inside of him and not pulling out until he absolutely had to.

He threw the condom in the nearby trashcan, and took Castiel into his arms immediately. He would say he wasn't one for cuddles, but he was. Especially after religious experiences.

Castiel just breathed, no words left in his mouth. Dean felt much the same way, and they waited until both of their breaths evened out before they breached conversation.

"Thank you," Castiel said, a pant still riding on the tail end of his words.

Dean shook his head, his grip on Castiel pulling him tighter. "No, thank you."

Castiel chuckled quietly, and they both drifted off to sleep as the sunlight began to paint the horizon though the wide window behind them.

When Dean woke up, it was to a black head of hair tickling his nose. He almost jerked awake, but he stilled when he felt Castiel's weight in his arms. He remembered every moment of the night before, and he didn't want to let go. It amazed him and scared him at the same time, but he didn't want to leave. He wanted to throw Castiel in the car and never be without him again. Something about the man drew him in and left its claws deep in his head. Almost in his soul, almost like he belonged to him. Like they belonged to each other. He left himself drift off instead.

The second time Dean woke up, it was to the sight of Castiel's back. Castiel was sitting on the edge of the bed, most of his clothes, save the loose shirt, still abandoned on the floor nearby. Dean crawled to the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around Castiel's midsection. "Good morning," he rasped, his voice sleepy and low.

He glanced up at Castiel and saw the same smile that made him feel as if Heaven had cracked open and let him see inside. "Good morning, Dean. Though I'd imagine it is afternoon by now." He glanced at the clock on the wall and noticed that it was, indeed, afternoon. Almost 3 PM.

Dean sighed. "I should get back on the road. My brother is expecting me. He's graduating from Stanford."

Castiel nodded succinctly, something in his movements stilted and hesitant. "Yes, I understand. You seem very proud. Extend my congratulations to your brother."

He made a move to get up, and Dean pulled him back down, nuzzling into his back. "I wouldn't mind it very much if you came with me."

Castiel's face lit up like he'd been let inside Heaven, too. "I have nothing keeping me here," he said by way of answer.

When Dean drove off later that afternoon, his duffle bag packed and his clothes changed, his road trip was no longer about him and his car. He had a new passenger, and he hoped to discover him along the way.

With the hotel in the rearview mirror, Castiel grasped Dean's hand over the console. They exchanged a twin pair of grins, and Dean didn't even complain when Castiel took a stick of incense out of his pocket, lit the end, and stuffed it into the glove compartment, letting the lit end stick out.

The radio played the Eagles for the next 20 minutes, and Dean didn't mind that much, either.


End file.
